


Nothing Left for Me to Give

by alongwayfromhome



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, I am so sorry, M/M, and henry and aimee are tired of dealing with nick tbh, but that's exactly what it is, did I mention I'm sorry?, emotional rollercoaster tbh, harry knows exactly what he wants, i really like the word fuck apparently, nick doesn't know what he wants, so its teen for swearing, this wasn't supposed to be 10k of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 13:38:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alongwayfromhome/pseuds/alongwayfromhome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sure, Nick had the piss taken out of him for his friendship with Harry. Keith Lemon was the closest either of them had ever gotten to facing it head on though. Nick had laughed it off—because what else do you do?—and that was that. It was fine, done, over with. Keith was taking his shots because that’s what he does, and Nick knew what he was signing up for before he went on the show. Keith has warned him he’d bring up Harry, and it was fine.</p>
<p>No one had ever asked Nick in a serious interview for bloody GQ magazine if he was shagging Harry though. No, that was definitely a first.</p>
<p>or, the one with a failed attempt at secret shagging, the GQ article, a high-off-painkillers confession, lots of apologizing, and make-outs in the kitchen. And Nick being an idiot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Left for Me to Give

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by [this edit](http://blamefincham.tumblr.com/image/55325190518), thanks to [blamefincham!](http://blamefincham.tumblr.com/) But of course, instead of the short little happy one-shot I was planning with minimal feelings, it turned into this 10k monster of an emotional rollercoaster and I am SO SORRY. Enjoy! xx
> 
> Title taken from You're Gone by Something Corporate.

￼

They were in the papers. A _lot_ of papers. It felt like everywhere Nick looked, there was an article with Harry’s name splashed on the headline, Nick’s own not following too far behind.

Nick heard from Harry roughly a hundred times over the 24 hour period after the article leaked. As soon it surfaced online, Nick had a text waiting for him. Four words.

_I am so sorry .xx_

It wasn’t the first time it happened and certainly wouldn’t be the last, Nick was sure. He had too many pop star friends to not get tossed into the gossip mags every once awhile. He’s too involved in the industry. It happened, and Nick dealt with it.

This was… well, this was a little different.

Sure, Nick had the piss taken out of him for his friendship with Harry before. Keith Lemon was the closest either of them had ever gotten to facing it head on though. Nick had laughed it off—because what else do you do?—and that was that. It was fine, done, over with. Keith was taking his shots because that’s what he did, and Nick knew what he was signing up for before he went on the show. Keith warned him he’d bring up Harry, and it was fine.

No one had ever asked Nick in a serious interview for bloody GQ magazine if he was shagging Harry though. No, that was definitely a first. It probably shouldn’t have been is the thing, but it was.

It still made Nick’s stomach turn just thinking about it because he was fiercely protective of his friends, but Harry especially. Harry was only 19, for Christ’s sake, and dealing with a lot more than anyone Nick knew ever had to deal with. It wasn’t fair, and he hated it more than he hated most things, but whenever he’d bring it up when he and Harry would hang out, Harry would just shrug it off. Act like it didn’t matter. 

Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe Nick was overreacting and just being overprotective.

He really didn’t think so, though.

_It’s fine, pop star. I’ll deal. How are you holding up?_

Nick tried not to dwell, but it was hard. He worried about Harry, even though he knew it wasn’t his place.

Not anymore.

_That_ was the problem, he knew that, he wasn’t bloody _stupid._

He and Harry stopped whatever thing they were doing before Harry left for the European leg of the tour, which had been back in the end of April. That was roughly four months ago. A complete month of radio silence while Harry was in Europe, because he was hurt and just did not want to talk to Nick. But then suddenly Harry was home again for a few days before they had to head out for the North American tour; Nick apologized and Harry accepted, being the adults they were, and that was that.

It was rocky at first, just a few awkward text messages exchanged and missed calls and emails, but they soon found their rhythm again. It wasn’t hard to get back to being _Nick &Harry_, and once they were, things felt good.

But now this. The bloody GQ article, and everything that was stemming from it. And on top of that, Nick was bloody injured. High off painkillers and feeling completely helpless. He was a sight for sore eyes, that much was for sure.

When he got back to work, he’d spoken to Harry roughly five hundred times at that point. Things were getting worse, not better, because the longer the article leak was out there, the more gossip rags and papers and magazines and websites got ahold of the quotes, quotes they had no business having access to in the first place.

The whole ordeal was taking a toll on Nick. His foot hurt, he was handicapped, and his twitter wouldn’t stop blowing up. He wanted to just toss his phone into a cup of water and be done with it for awhile, until this all blew over, but he knew he couldn’t do that.

“You all right?” Matt asked while Nick played _Get Lucky_ because he was sadistic. Or stupid. Both, probably.

“Fine,” he said with a shrug. “Why?”

“Bit quieter than usual, is all, and if it was because of—“

“I’m doped up on pain killers? Sorry for not being the life of the party here, Fincham.”

Matt sighed. “Nick…”

He waved him off. “I’m fine. It was just a long night.”

“All right, if you’re sure. Song’s over in ten.” Then they went about their business like always.

When Nick left work, he had a few more texts from Harry.

_Have I mentioend I’m sorrry? Cos I am_

Nick frowned at the screen. The message was from 6 Nick’s time. He’d missed it before he’d gone into the station apparently. There were two more below that.

_Don;t shutjm e out NIkc._

_I’m so sorrry xxxx_

Bloody fucking hell, Nick cursed to himself before closing out of the message thread and dialing Aimee’s number. He was not going to deal with an apparently drunk and emotional Harry Styles, not right now. “Feel like brunch?” he asked her weakly when she answered.

_”You’re injured. Do **you** feel like brunch?”_

“No,” he sighed, “But I’m having a crisis and that seemed like the best way to tell you about it.”

Aimee chuckled. _”I’ll meet you at yours in a half hour. I’ll even bring mimosas.”_

 

Aimee was, at it turned out, in Nick’s house when he got there, sitting on his couch and petting Puppy while Nick struggled to even make it through the front door. “You better have booze,” he muttered before _finally_ collapsing on the couch next to his bright haired mate.

She cackled. “Orange juice is in the fridge, of course I do. Tell me what happened first.”

Nick sighed. “Get me alcohol first.”

“Aren’t you on painkillers? Isn’t that, like, dangerous?”

“That’s what I’m counting on,” he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at the wall.

Aimee reached out and rubbed Nick’s arm. “The article?”

“He’s only a kid, Aims. He shouldn’t have to be dealing with this.”

“Maybe so, but neither should you, to be fair. You’re not the world famous pop star, right?”

“No, just the idiot who got involved,” he muttered.

Aimee sighed. “I’ll get the mimosas.”

She got up and Puppy jumped down to follow because she was a fickle dog after Grimmy’s own heart. He pulled his phone out and pulled up Twitter, because _why not?_ If he was going down, he might as well go down hard.

“How much do you want?” Aimee called from the kitchen.

Nick grunted. “The whole bloody bottle,” he said while scrolling through his feed. Too many Harry Styles mentions for him to be comfortable with. He closed out of Twitter and opened up his messages, going straight to Harry’s name. He couldn’t keep ignoring him. This wasn’t Harry’s fault, not directly.

_Not shutting you out, Pop Star. Promise. Call if you get a chance. Xxx_

He sighed and hit send before he could change his mind, locked his phone, and tossed it onto the table just as Aimee sat down and handed him a glass. “So, correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought things were okay?”

“They were,” Nick moaned, dropping his head back against the couch. “Totally fine. We were like… proper mates again, and it was good. But Christ, Aimee, have you seen the article?”

She hummed and sipped her drink. “No. Haven’t bothered.”

“They asked him if we were, like, secretly shagging.”

Nick didn’t have to look over to know Aimee had an eyebrow raised. “Well… weren’t you?”

He sighed. “Yeah, but we certainly weren’t about to go and tell bloody GQ about that, were we?” Her quirked eyebrow told him he’d definitely snapped, so he sighed and kept going. “They, like, asked him if he’d heard the _rumors_ about us, which how couldn’t he? Then he played dumb and was like what rumors? Har har har I’m Harry Styles aren’t I bloody charming?”

Aimee chuckled. “Okay, so he denied rumors about you two. What else?”

“They asked him if he was bisexual.”

“Straight out?” Aimee asked, cocking her head to the side.

“Yeah, bloody twat of an interviewer apparently was never taught common decency or sommat.”

“What did he say?”

Nick sighed again. He had the answer memorized. “‘Bisexual? Me? I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure I’m not.’”

Aimee let out a low whistle. “Someone had some good PR training.”

Nick stayed quiet. Her sarcasm was enough for the both of them.

“What are you going to do?” she asked him after a few minutes of quiet.

He had no idea.

 

Aimee left not long after. She had a date with Ian and Nick was tired of her reassurances anyways. They could only go so far before he snapped. Nick’s only plans for the night were to order take-away and watch shit telly programs before popping a few pain killers and going to bed.

The night was fine for awhile, but then Nick’s phone went off and it was Harry and he had to take a few deep breaths to make himself calm down before he answered. “‘Lo?”

_”Hi,”_ Harry said, drawing it out long and slow like always. _“You all right?”_

Nick sighed. “Been better.”

_”I’m sorry, Nick. You have no idea. I mean, that whole interview—“_

“Harry. It’s all right. I didn’t—that’s not what I meant,” he lied, because it was, sort of, but he hated hearing how sad Harry sounded. Especially when there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

Harry stayed quiet. Nick could hear his breathing and he thought about staying quiet too, just so he could listen to it, but he knew he had to explain.

“You’re going to laugh,” Nick warned. “So just… don’t, yeah? Feel bloody ridiculous enough as is.”

_”What happened?”_

“I tore a ligament or sommat at five-aside with Olly Murs yesterday.”

Harry barked out a laugh. _”Seriously?”_

“I’ve got the boot to prove it,” Nick muttered.

_”Oh my God. Idiot. You’re an idiot.”_

Nick rolled his eyes. “Not exactly the sympathy I was looking for, Styles.”

_“I’m sorry, I just—“_ He laughed again, harder this time. _”I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s awful. You all right?”_

Nick sighed. “I’m fine. Got enough pain killers to last me for awhile.”

_“Heard about the texts you were sending while high on life. Doesn’t poor Finchy get enough of you as it is?”_

“Oi!” Nick huffed. “Be nice to me! I’m crippled and in pain.”

Harry chuckled. _”Sorry.”_

They talked for a little while longer, mindless things to keep the conversation easy, before Nick was stifling yawn after yawn and trying to cover them up each time.

It wasn’t working. Nick could hear Harry’s smile from across the ocean. _”Go to bed, Nick. You’ve got the show in the morning, yeah?”_

“Ibiza,” he hummed. “Gotta be at the airport at 5.” Honestly he’d sort of forgotten about it. He wasn’t sure he was going to be able to go, what with the boot an all, but he couldn’t back out. He had a show to do. Of course he was going.

_”Oh. Right. That’ll be a laugh then, yeah?”_

Nick couldn’t stop from smirking. Harry’s tone was clipped, short. “Don’t be jealous, Pop Star. You’re the one jetting around the world on the regular. Give us regular people a chance every one in awhile.”

Harry scoffed. _”Don’t be a twat. Just… I remember you talking about Ibiza, before I left.”_

Oh. Right. Nick remembered too. He remembered laying in bed with Harry during one of his breaks from the UK tour. Harry had come home for the night, only to have to leave again the next day, but they at least got to spend the night together. Which was more than enough, for a little while.

They’d ordered food from a little joint that was open late and were waiting for it to get delivered. Limbs tangled together with sheets thrown haphazardly around themselves while the telly droned on in the background, just for extra noise. They weren’t listening though, too focused on each other. Nick was talking enough for both of them anyways.

He was going on about Ibiza because they’d just gotten confirmation that it was a go, and he was excited and babbling and Harry was listening intently. Like always. Like he _always_ did when Nick talked.

That was the worst part. Thinking about those moments when Harry was… so bloody great. When things seemed like they were going in a direction that may have had the potential to actually _be_ something.

Those were the worst parts to remember, because shortly after them came all of the doubt. The negativity. The fact that Nick was alone.

It was bloody awful. He hated when his head went there, and it _always_ went there.

_”Miss you, Nick,”_ Harry said, pulling Nick back to the present, which apparently wasn’t much better. _”I know I’m not really supposed to say that, but… well, I do.”_

Nick closed his eyes and dropped his head back against the couch. He fucking _hated_ this. It hit him fast and hard, like a quick punch to the gut, but it was true. He hated this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this but it was and it was entirely his own fault, which made it even worse.

_I miss you too, Pop Star._ It was right on the tip of his tongue. He could have said it, easily, but the words wouldn’t come. So they just sat in silence, because Nick was fairly certain words weren’t enough anymore, anyways.

 

Nick blinked open his eyes, slowly, and groaned. There was a pain shooting through his leg so intense, the only reason he was awake, and it was making him dizzy. “Fuck,” he muttered, sitting up. He needed pain killers. He needed lots and lots of pain killers. Fast.

After the phone call with Harry, once they hung up, Nick fell asleep stretched out on the couch. He knew he should have gone to his bed, but the couch was right there and his head was swimming and his leg _hurt_ so he’d just closed his eyes and passed out.

He leaned forward and snatched the orange bottle off the coffee table, popping the lid off before dumping some of the white pills into his hand. Three sounded sufficient. Actually, five sounded sufficient, but he wanted relief, not a death wish. He dry swallowed three of the pills, tossed the bottle aside, and leaned back into the couch. His mobile was in his pocket, so he pulled it out and squinted at the screen.

It was entirely too late and Nick had to be up in three hours to get to the airport. He knew he should have just closed his eyes and gone back to sleep, but now that he was awake and looking at his phone, he was thinking of Harry.

Seemed to be the standard way his train of thought worked these days.

He let his head fall back against the couch and groaned. He stared at his ceiling.

_Harry._

He had to be up in three hours to go to the bloody airport and all he could do was take some painkillers and think about Harry bloody Styles. He was a mess, an actual mess, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Well, there was one thing actually. He picked his phone up and looked at the screen. It was late in London, but not that late in… where was Harry again? California? Probably California. Somewhere on the West Coast. Somewhere warm and sunny, where Harry was probably lounging on some beach in stupid neon swim trunks that hung too low on his hips and showed off—

Nick sucked in a breath and sat up a little straighter. He felt considerably lighter than he had before. How long had it been since he took the pills? Too long? Not long enough? Were they even working?

He leaned forward and made a motion to stand up, but as soon as he got on his good foot, the light-headedness got taken to a whole new level.

Okay. High off pain killers. He was fine. How many had he taken when he got home from the station? Was he still under the maximum amount you could take in a 24 hour period? Is that how it worked?

“Fuck,” he muttered, falling back into the couch. He reached his arm out and clutched the cushion to try and get his bearings. His fingers skimmed over the screen of his phone. He looked at it and smiled. He needed to talk to someone.

He pulled up his messages and went to the first one, Harry’s name at the top of his phone. He thought that was fitting, considering Harry’s name was usually first in his thoughts, in his head, on the tip of his tongue _always_ …

God. He missed Harry. He missed him so much, and he had the perfect chance to tell him as much earlier and he couldn’t, couldn’t make himself do it, even though he wanted nothing more. Maybe now was his chance.

He squinted at the bright screen and started typing. _Miss you. Wanted to tell you earlier but couldn’t, but I miss you._ He hit send.

That was all it took for the dam to break in Nick. It was like everything he wanted to say to Harry was suddenly coming out in a constant stream through his head. He couldn’t move his fingers fast enough over the screen.

_Fucked it up so bad. I’m sorry. My fault._

_You’re my mate. Didn’t want to lose it but fucked it up anyways._

_I thought we had a chance, wanted a chance, and fuckedit up anyways._

_I’m sorry Pop Star. This is all my fault._

Nick was in the middle of a particularly ridiculous message when his eyes fell shut and the pain killers took over. He stretched out on the couch, phone falling to the ground, and fell asleep.

 

Stupid fucking Marimba. Stupid fucking iPhone. Stupid fucking early alarm set because Nick had to go to his stupid fucking radio show at stupid fucking arse o’clock in the morning.

Pain killers really didn’t help Nick’s early morning routine.

He rubbed his eyes and after shutting off his alarm, tossed the phone across the room. He’d set his alarm as late as humanly possible so he really didn’t have time to just sit and wake himself up. He sighed, got off the couch, and started his morning routine.

Forty-five minutes later, Nick was locking up his front door with his bag in hand as he hobbled out to the car waiting to take him to the airport.

It wasn’t until he was in the car, situated and riding along the streets of London, heading to Heathrow, that he pulled his phone out of his pocket. He unlocked the screen and was immediately taken to his messages with Harry.

For a split second, his eyes widened like a bloody cartoon character. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, scrolling through the messages. He’d been on a roll, apparently.

He vaguely remembered waking up in the middle of the night and popping a few more pain killers because his leg hurt and he was a baby. He remembered not wanting to leave the couch to go to his bed and he remembered… nothing else. He definitely didn’t remember texting Harry a million times while high out of his bloody mind.

The last one, half finished and still waiting to be sent, was his favorite. _I miss you too, Pop Star. Miss you so much. Com_ was all it said. Come home, Nick finished in his head with a frown.

He needed to deal with it, call Harry and figure out what was going on and where they stood and maybe apologize for being such a twat, but he also knew he didn’t want to. It was too much. He’d deal with it eventually, but for now…

He pressed the button down until his phone was shutting off, shoved it into his bag, and vowed to think about it… later. _Much_ later.

 

For a few days, Nick’s radio silence meant nothing to Harry. He got text after text, asking him where he was and what he was doing, missed calls and voicemails, even a few emails.

Nick didn’t respond to any of them. He read a few of the texts before just deleting them altogether, along with the emails that went unread and the voicemails that didn’t get listened to.

He’d deal with it eventually. Just… not now.

 

Two weeks passed in a blink of an eye. Before he knew it, Nick was heading home with a tan, a foot that was slightly more healed than it had been when he left, and a liver that was probably a little more worse for wear, but he was in good spirits. He was tired, but felt well-rested at the same time. All in all, it was a good vacation.

When he got off the plane at Heathrow, though, he was thrust back into reality. A harsh reality where Harry Styles was a real person and, despite supposedly putting them to rest, the rumors were flying more than ever.

So, all right. Things hadn’t settled down, like, at all, in the two weeks since Nick had left.

Wonderful. Bloody wonderful.

He stomped by the various stands housing any tabloid magazine you could imagine and glared especially hard at the copy of GQ with Harry Styles on the cover. Bloody joke of a magazine, he thought to himself as he stalked out of the airport. He hailed a taxi and climbed in after tossing his bag into the boot. He rattled off his address before relaxing back into his seat and pulling out his mobile.

It was time to reconnect with the world, he figured. He turned his phone on and waited. And waited. And waited.

Nothing. Well, not nothing. Entirely too many emails, which were all junk, some calls from his mum, which he’d return later, and some texts from mates asking how his injury was and hoping his vacation was going well.

But as far as one particular pop star went? There was nothing.

He knew he should have been feeling a sort of relief or something, but he didn’t. He felt terrible, because this was his fault and he needed to fix it but instead of facing it head on like a bleeding adult, he’d ignored the problem and shoved it all aside until it’d built up so high that he couldn’t even see around it anymore.

So. That was that.

He checked his calendar quick and noted that Harry was due home in a few days. He wondered if they could wait that long. Would a few more days really make that much of a difference?

Nick groaned. He was a mess. He needed to talk to someone but didn’t know who to go to at this point. Aimee was the first choice simply because she was _always_ the first choice.

There was only so much Aimee could say before it became a broken record. Because deep down, Nick knew what he had to do. But what he had to do and wanted to do were two vastly different things.

He found Henry’s name quick and easy and hit send. The phone rang twice before Henry was answering. _“Aren’t you on holiday or sommat?”_

“Just missed you that much, darling,” Nick said with a roll of his eyes. “Nice to hear from you too, by the way.”

Henry sighed. _”Sorry, sorry. Hi. You all right?”_

“Fine,” Nick said as dramatically as he could muster. “Just having a life crisis, you know, the usual.”

_”When aren’t you?”_ Henry mused. Nick frowned. He wasn’t _that_ bad. His friends were the worst. _”But what’s wrong now? Harry related, I’m assuming.”_

Christ, maybe he _was_ that bad. “Have you seen the article?”

_“Think the shorter list would be who hasn’t seen the article, mate.”_

Nick sighed. “Right.”

_”So what’s the problem? I mean other than apparently you two secretly shagging really wasn’t as secret as you liked to believe it was.”_

Nick pulled his mobile away from his face and scowled at it before bringing it back to his ear. “I’m sorry, is this Henry? My supposed best mate who is supposed to help me in times of need, not make things worse?”

Henry cackled. _”Oh come off it, Grim. You know I’ll help, just had to take the piss for a few minutes first.”_

“Arse,” Nick muttered just as the taxi pulled up in front of his place. “Hold on,” he said before tossing some notes tot he driver and climbing out. He grabbed his bag and headed down his stairs, to his door. “All right,” he said when he was finally inside. “Come over. Would probably be better explaining all of this in person.”

_”Can’t. I’m meeting David soon.”_

Nick huffed. “Your mate _needs_ you, mind re-thinking that statement?”

_“Oh bloody come off it,”_ Henry muttered. _”You’re being a twat. Just tell me what happened so I can tell you how to fix it, yeah?”_

“Haven’t spoken to Harry in two weeks.”

_“Because you’re an idiot, or…?”_

Nick glared at nothing. “Because…” he trailed off, wishing he had a better answer, but he didn’t. He sighed. “Because I’m an idiot, yeah.”

_“Right then. Okay. Call him and fix it. It’s really that simple.”_

“It’s _not_ though,” Nick whined. “I really fucked it up this time, Henry.”

_”Don’t you always?”_

Nick collapsed onto the couch in his living room. “Got high off painkillers, texted him a million times a bunch of nonsensical things about my bloody feelings, and then ignored him for two weeks, right after a fucking article came out asking him if he was bisexual and if we were dating.”

Henry let out a low whistle. _“All right. So that’s not good. He comes home soon, yeah?”_

“Few days, I think. Or something. I don’t know.”

_”Yes you do,”_ Henry sighed. _”Call him, tell him you need to see him when he’s home, and fix this Nick. It’s honestly not that hard.”_

“What if—“

_”You didn’t,”_ Henry finished for him quietly. _”Believe me. I’ve got to go, I’ll talk to you later.”_

Nick sighed. “All right, fine. Love you.”

“Love you too, you emotionally fucked up child.”

 

Nick unpacked first, then tended to anything and everything around his house that may have needed it. He didn’t even have Puppy around to distract him because he didn’t have to pick her up until the following day at the kennel.

He ordered himself some takeaway, collapsed on the couch with a bottle of wine, and pulled out his mobile. Now or never. Or something.

It rang a lot, _a lot_ —to the point where Nick wasn’t sure he was even going to answer—and then finally Harry’s voice was in his ear and the knot in his stomach tightened and then warmth blossomed through his chest all at once because he was, clearly, mental. Absolutely gone.

_“Didn’t think I should answer,”_ Harry said by way of greeting.

“I’m sorry,” Nick apologized, closing his eyes and dropping his head back against the couch.

_”What the fuck, Nick? You ignore me for two weeks and then you call me out of the blue?”_

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I just—I’m _really_ sorry, Pop Star.”

_”Don’t,”_ Harry barked, which startled Nick enough to sit up straight. _“You don’t… don’t call me that, Nick. It’s not—this isn’t fair. You don’t get to pick and choose how this works.”_

Nick sighed. “I’m sorry, Harry. When are you—when do you get home?”

Harry sighed. Nick could almost see the disgruntled toddler frown on his face when he spoke. _”We leave tonight.”_

“Think you could spare an hour or two and come see me?”

_”Why should I?”_

Nick rolled his eyes, because Harry had never sounded more like a petulant, spoiled, pop star child than he did with those three words. “Because I’m asking you to, Harry.”

_”Yeah? Well I was asking you a lot before you left for bloody Ibiza, but apparently it doesn’t matter when it’s someone else. It only matters when it’s you Nick, yeah? That’s how it works?”_

“I need to talk to you, and I’d rather do it in person.”

Harry groaned. _“Fine. Fucking—fine. I’ve got to go. I’ll call, or—something.”_

Well. It was a start.

 

Nick woke up to the sound of a banging on his front door and his doorbell going off over and over. He startled awake, actually, because apparently he’d fallen asleep on the couch. Again. He groaned and rubbed his eyes before checking the time on his phone. Half three in the morning and someone was bloody banging on his door.

“For Christ’s sake,” he muttered, “I’m _coming_ , keep your sodding trousers on.”

He pulled the door open, ready to rip whoever it was on the other side a new one.

But it was Harry, because of course it was. His life was a joke. An actual joke. He was waiting for the punchline, waiting for the laugh, but he had a feeling it wasn’t going to come.

Harry looked awful. He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “Can I come in?”

Nick wordlessly stepped back and to the side, so Harry could walk in, and then shut the door. He turned to face Harry, still standing in the foyer looking awkward as hell, with wide eyes and a dropped jaw.

Because this was Harry. In his house. And… _what?_

“So I was home, when you called. Got home this morning actually. It’s only for a day or two, and then I have to go back, because this is my life. It’s busy, and hectic, and I can’t stop for five seconds, ever. I get asked about who I’m sleeping with more than I get asked how old I am or what I want to eat. People care more about my sexuality than if I’m a good person. My life is a shit show more often than not. I don’t know what I’m doing, Nick! What the fuck do you want from me?” Harry yelled, throwing his arms up and raking his hands through his hair roughly.

Christ. This was… too much. It was early—late?—and it was too much for Nick to deal with. How was he supposed to deal with an in-distress pop star? Was that an actual thing he was just supposed to _know_ how to do? “You’re here,” Nick opted for, because he was apparently brain dead.

Harry laughed, but it was half laugh, half sob, and Nick’s heart wrenched at the sound. “Yeah,” he said, “I’m here.”

“I just—Christ, Harry,” he said, and then before he could stop himself, he reached out and wrapped his arms around the younger boy. Harry stiffened at first, but then he melted into his, burrowing his face into Nick’s neck while Nick pressed his cheek against Harry’s hair.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Nick repeated, over and over, because fuck, he was _so_ sorry, and no matter how many times he said it, it would never be enough.

They stood in the foyer for entirely too long, what felt like hours, before they pulled apart. Harry looked exhausted. Nick reached out and cupped his face and Harry leaned into the touch. “Come on,” Nick said, turning Harry around and guiding him through the house. He was going to go to the couch, but he was exhausted and Harry was exhausted and honestly they both just needed some sleep.

“What?” Harry asked when they reached Nick’s room.

Nick sighed. “We’re going to sleep because it almost 4 in the bloody morning and we both clearly need it.”

Harry didn’t even protest, just shucked off his shirt and kicked off his boots before pushing off his skinny jeans while Nick got settled in bed.

Harry wasted no time crawling under the duvet and getting comfortable on the side of the bed he used to sleep on. They stayed a respectful distance apart while Nick turned onto his side to face Harry and Harry did the same.

“I’m sorry,” Nick repeated.

Harry sighed. “I’m exhausted.”

That was good enough for Nick. He reached and arm out and Harry wiggled his body over until they were pressed against one another. Nick curled his body around Harry’s, wrapped his arm around his waist, and nuzzled his face against Harry’s neck.

Within minutes, Harry was out like a light, and Nick was following shortly after.

 

Nick woke up alone, which he couldn’t decide if that was more or less disorienting than waking up with someone else unexpectedly in his bed. He leaned towards more so, because when he woke up and Harry was gone, he felt… wrong.

He sighed and pulled himself out of bed though before making his way to the kitchen, which was exactly where he found Harry. He was sitting at the island with a cup of tea, looking… well, he looked exactly how he sounded on the phone less than 24 hours prior: angry, upset, and, quite honestly, pretty awful.

Which was, safe to say, not what Nick was expecting. “Morning, Pop Star,” he said with a nod before walking over to the counter. He got his own cup of tea before turning around and leaning against the counter facing Harry, who turned in his seat to face Nick.

He was still scowling, which was unsettling. “Problem?” Nick asked, sipping his tea. He had a terrible feeling in his gut that this wasn’t going to end well, and as soon as Harry opened his mouth, he knew why.

“I can’t fucking keep doing this, Nick!” he burst.

Nick frowned. “Doing what, exactly? Sitting in my kitchen, drinking my tea?”

“More like being completely fucking gone for you and you not giving a shit, actually,” Harry muttered.

And that… well, that was different. And unexpected. Nick didn’t even know what to say to that, honestly, and Nick _always_ had something to say.

“God Nick, did you even care? Like, at all? Because you’re really giving the vibe that you didn’t right now.”

Saying he didn’t care would be an outright lie. Of course he cared. He cared too much; they didn’t just start shagging because they were bored, and they didn’t stop because Nick was tired of it. There was so much more there, so much more Nick didn’t even want to think about. “Of course I cared,” he said quietly, setting his cup down on the counter before turning back to Harry. “Still care. That’s the problem, Harry.”

“How the hell do you figure?”

“Where have you been these past two weeks, hmm? Did you conveniently miss the lovely article GQ put out about you, and then all of the shit that stemmed from it? Or was that all in my head?” Nick was tired too, but he wasn’t going down without a fight. Harry could act the petulant pop star all he wanted, but Nick could act the (sort of, not really) rational adult just as well.

“I fucking lived the interview, Nick! What the hell do you mean, where have I been? I’ve been trying to fix everything! I’ve been trying to apologize. I’ve been trying to figure out where your head’s at, but instead of letting me in _at all_ , you shut me out completely. Where have I been,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “Where the fuck have you been?”

Maybe it was because it wasn’t a version of Harry that Nick was used to dealing with, this confused and angry and hurt and flustered Harry, that made him act the way he was acting in response. Whatever it was, he couldn’t stop it. “Trying to move on,” he said, his tone clipped while he folded his arms over his chest. He didn’t say anymore, because he didn’t have to.

Harry’s mouth dropped open for a few moments before snapping shut. He nodded and stood up. “I can’t do this anymore, Nick,” he repeated, his voice lower as he shook his head.

“Do _what?_ ” Nick asked. He was tired of hearing that and not knowing what Harry meant.

“This!” Harry yelled. “Us! Whatever we were doing, whatever we are doing, I can’t do it anymore. It wasn’t even you not speaking to me for two bloody weeks, although maybe it should have been. It’s just…” he trailed off and sighed, slumping his shoulders. “It’s all of it, Grim. We used to be friends, _were_ friends before we fucked it all up.”

Nick stiffened. This was exactly what he didn’t want. This was exactly why he and Harry stopped the first time. Except they weren’t even _doing_ anything now, so what did Harry mean? Were they not even fit to be friends anymore? His stomach tightened at the thought.

“I just… I need someone who is going to be there whenever I need them, not someone who is going to dump everything they’re feeling on me and then shut me out for two weeks. That’s not… you can’t just do that, Nick. Do you even realize how fucked that is?”

Nick nodded. He knew. He’d done nothing but think about exactly that and just how fucked it was for two weeks. He may not have been speaking to Harry, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking about it. “I’m sorry, Harry,” he said finally. “I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

Harry released a frustrated groan and raked his fingers through his hair. “I want you—dammit Nick, I just want you to be honest and real with me for like, five seconds.”

_I’m in love with you._ The thought came fast and hard and almost knocked the wind out of him, but he kept it to himself. Now… this wasn’t the place or time. “I said those things to you because I was high off painkillers and too out of it to be afraid.”

Which. Okay. That wasn’t what Nick was going for either, but apparently it was, and apparently they were going to talk about this now.

Harry shook his head. “That’s it, though. You’ll tell me those things when you’re drunk or high, or you’ll whisper them as a joke right after we’ve shagged just because you think you can get away with it. But right now, right here, with me standing in front of you begging for it, you can’t say them to my face. Can you?”

No, Nick couldn’t, and he wouldn’t. He shook his head and stayed quiet.

“Right,” Harry said with a quick nod. His voice was tight and Nick felt awful. This was all happening so fast and he couldn’t stop it. “So that’s it then, yeah? Because that’s what I need, someone who will just… someone who will fucking be there. And that’s exactly what you don’t want to give me. So, that’s where we are.”

They stayed quiet for a few minutes, just staring at each other like they were _it_ , and it hurt, it hurt so fucking much because Nick had an awful feeling about this, that this conversation sounded a lot like it was going to end with goodbye, and he really couldn’t fucking deal with that.

“I should go,” Harry said, shaking his head. “I’ve got to—plane leaves soon, I’m sure.”

“Harry,” Nick choked out, taking a step forward when Harry moved to leave.

They locked eyes and it was like everything was melting away, but then Harry shook his head and looked down. “Can’t do this,” he muttered. He crossed the space between them in a few quick strides before cupping his hand around Nick’s neck. Their lips found each other effortlessly and they locked together like they’d done a million times before.

It was rough, all tongue and teeth and _too much_ , but Nick wasn’t going to stop even if his life depended on it, which he wasn’t entirely sure it didn’t.

His own hands were making their way up Harry’s sides when Harry ripped back, breathing heavily. “Can’t do this,” he said again, shaking his head. He turned on his heel to leave and Nick physically felt something inside of him shattering.

He heard the front door open and then shut with a resounding thud. He made it all of an extra fifteen seconds before he collapsed on the floor of the kitchen, feeling like a teenager. He pulled his phone out and thought about dialing Henry’s number, but didn’t want to speak, so he pulled up their message thread instead and typed a quick message.

_You were wrong. Can’t fix this._ was all it said. He hit send, got off the ground, went to his bedroom, and crawled under the duvet that smelled like Harry.

And if he cried a little—or a lot, enough to soak his pillow—so fucking be it.

 

It wasn’t until Nick didn’t have him anymore— _really_ didn’t have him—that he realized how much he needed Harry around.

 

Nick’s birthday came and went, and suddenly he was 29, alone, and slowly turning more and more bitter with each passing day. He was trying, trying really hard actually, but to anyone else it just looked like he was giving up.

“Come on,” Aimee said one day, blowing through his house like she owned the damn place. “We’re going for drinks.”

“It’s one in the afternoon, Aimee,” he sighed from his spot on the couch. “No, we’re not.”

“Fuck that, yes we are. Come on, get up.” She stood in front of him with her hands on her hips and her head cocked to the side, a charming as all hell grin on her face.

Nick hated her. He got off the couch. “I hate you.”

She cackled and slapped his arse as he walked away. A half hour later and the two of them were headed out the door. “I hate you,” Nick repeated, falling into his car because Aimee was awful.

“No you don’t,” she said with a quick laugh. “You love me, and I’m going to fix this.”

“Fix what?” He muttered, starting to drive away.

“Whatever mess you created that has you sitting at yours at one in the afternoon on a Saturday moping like your life depends on it.”

“I was not _moping!_ ” Nick squawked. He wasn’t. He hadn’t moped since Harry left. He wasn’t _happy_ , but there was a difference between being unhappy and outright moping. It was a fine line, but Nick knew it was there.

“Babe, you’re moping. I was supposed to spend the day with Ian today, but I blew him off because I’m your best friend and you need me. Okay?”

Nick didn’t even protest. It was a lost cause at that point; what Aimee wanted, Aimee got, and if she wanted to torture Nick and make him talk about his feelings, then she would get that handed to her on a silver platter.

He pulled up to the little place they got Sunday brunch at every week and shut the engine off. “It’s not Sunday,” Aimee said when she noticed.

Nick grunted. “No. But I need some alcohol in my system and it’s Saturday afternoon so I figured this was the only safe bet.”

When they got inside and got seated, Nick ordered mimosas—“And keep them coming”—while Aimee poured over the menu. Nick wasn’t ordering food, just mimosas, because he was 29 and miserable.

When their waitress came back with their drinks, she took Aimee’s order and then left them alone. Aimee leaned onto the table, sipped her mimosa, and frowned. “What the hell happened Nick?”

He took a huge drink of his mimosa and leaned back in his seat. “Nothing.” It was pretty fucking far from the truth, but it was also what he kept telling himself. _Nothing happened. Nothing happened. Nothing fucking happened._

“Bull fucking shit,” she muttered, shaking her head and mimicking Nick. She sat back and folded her arms over her chest. “Try again.”

Nick sighed and looked down at the table. He moved his drink and started tracing a design in the condensation left behind on the wood. “I haven’t spoken to Harry in about a week.”

“And he didn’t come to your birthday.”

Nick nodded, eyes still on the table. “And he didn’t come to my birthday.”

“He was home though, wasn’t he?”

Nick shrugged.

Aimee stayed quiet for a few moments, probably hoping Nick was going to open his mouth and just start spilling everything, which _fuck that_ , quite honestly. “Nick.” It didn’t have the bite behind it he was expecting, like it should have, because he was acting like a stubborn child. If it was any other day, she probably would have smacked him upside the head and walked out.

That was the problem, he decided. His friends were walking around on eggshells for absolutely no reason. Nick was fucked. It was nothing new. He didn’t think anyone had to take any special precautions to make sure he didn’t swallow a bottle of bleach or something. He was fine. Emotionally damaged and his heart was probably either shattered or withered into a tiny black speck of a thing at that point, but whatever. He was fine.

“ _Nick!_ ” She barked like bloody Thurston used to when Nick would sit on that one spot on the couch he claimed as his, despite the fact that he was a sodding _dog_ and didn’t deserve a spot on the bloody couch, honestly.

Nick wasn’t phased. “What?” he asked, keeping his tone flat while he finally brought his eyes up to Aimee’s.

Her eyes softened. “Did something happen with Harry?”

Nick grunted and looked down at the table. “No,” he lied.

“Liar.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t respond.

The waitress came back not long after with Aimee’s eggs benedict and a fresh mimosa for Nick. “You’re going to have to talk to me eventually,” Aimee said finally, her voice soft as she started to cut into her breakfast. “Hopefully sooner, rather than later.”

They didn’t talk much for the rest of the meal. Nick stole a few bites of food from Aimee, finished a few more mimosas, and when they left he was feeling considerably lighter than he had when they arrived. Although that was probably the champagne, but whatever. He was feeling lighter. It was wonderful. _Alcohol_ was wonderful.

Aimee drove back to Nick’s, and when she parked his car they both climbed out and she followed him inside. Nick didn’t even protest, because he knew this was coming. He may not have wanted to talk to Aimee in the middle of a sodding restaurant, but alone in his own home, coming down from his mimosa drunk? Sure. Why the hell not?

He collapsed onto the couch and Aimee sat down across from him. Puppy hopped up to sit in her lap. The traitor.

Nick sighed heavily. “Harry showed up on my doorstep at half 3 in the morning asking if he could come in, and then he was standing in my foyer going off and asking what I wanted from him, which in some ways was totally unfair and also completely justified because I bloody texted him high off painkillers admitting a bunch of shit I never should have admitted, especially not over texts. Then I ignored him while we were in Ibiza because I’m, like… emotionally fucked up on so many more levels than I ever originally thought.”

Nick took a deep breath when he finished and looked up at Aimee, who was staring at him with a soft expression. “Oh sweetie,” she said, shaking her head. 

He groaned. “Christ, Aims. When did I get so fucked up?”

“Probably around the same time you started being completely gone on Harry fucking Styles.”

Well, yeah. That was… pretty spot on, actually.

“So he comes over at 3 in the morning and you two duke it out over feelings like real men, and then… what happened?”

Nick sighed. “We went to bed.”

Aimee hummed, then rolled her eyes. “Right. Of course.”

“He was exhausted!” Nick defended himself, his voice shooting up an octave higher than necessary. “ _I_ was exhausted. So we went to bed. Then I woke up in the morning with an empty bed and a very pissed off pop star, standing in my kitchen drinking my tea.”

Aimee cocked her head to the side. “He was… mad?”

“Extremely.” A flash of angry Harry went through his mind. “Told me he couldn’t _do this_ anymore.”

“What the fuck does that mean, exactly?”

“Me, Aimee,” Nick sighed. “He was telling me he was done with _me_. Rightfully so, to be honest. The shit I’ve put him through…” Nick shook his head. “Would he really be getting the gay and bi-sexual rumors if he wasn’t friends with a gay 29 year old radio DJ? ’S my fault the bloody GQ article even happened.”

“Fucking… that’s such bullshit!” Aimee yelled. Puppy yipped, obviously startled, then settled back on her lap. “I mean, Christ. Are you seriously telling me it’s _your_ fault some stupid fucking journalist couldn’t keep his mouth shut and his nose out of a place it never should have been in in the first place?”

Nick shrugged half-heartedly. When she put it like that, it sounded ridiculous. “He said he needed someone who could be there for him whenever he needed.” _AKA not me_ , his mind added.

“And that’s not you?” Aimee scoffed. “Listen, I’m your friend first. I love Harry, I do. But this is bullshit.”

Nick rolled his eyes. “No it’s not—“

“Yes, it _is_. In what ways have you not been there for him, Nick? I mean honestly. Suddenly, just because things are a little rough, he’s going to call it quits and claim you haven’t been there.” She scoffed again. “That’s bullshit. He’s acting his age, and it’s bullshit, and I’m not afraid to call him on it.”

“Call _what_ quits exactly, Aimee? There was nothing to call quits! Before he came over last week, I hadn’t seen him in person in something like four months. We were talking, but rarely, and things weren’t like they used to be. If anything, _I_ called it quits when we were actually _doing_ something, but that was months ago. So no, Harry didn’t call it quits. He was just fed up with my bullshit, which is nothing new and really, who could blame him?”

Aimee shook her head. “You’re being an idiot.”

“I’m telling you the truth,” Nick muttered, folding his arms over his chest. “You don’t have to believe it, but regardless. It is what it is.”

“So that’s it then? No more Harry? You’re just… giving up?”

“I gave up a long time ago, Aims. This is more… facing reality. Because if anyone on the face of the planet ever thought that Harry and I were going to be something, then they were even more bloody stupid than I was.”

Nick was not expecting Aimee to scoff, get off the couch, and start pacing around the room, but that’s exactly what she did. “Oh come the fuck on, Nick!” she snarled, stomping around like she owned the damn place. _Again._

“Excuse me?” Nick cocked an eyebrow and folded his arms tighter.

“You’re being so fucking stupid! I’m sorry, but seriously? This is ridiculous. I thought maybe talking to you, I could help, but you’re seriously so fucking dense, I can’t even…” she trailed off, shaking her head.

“Don’t fucking sugarcoat it or anything,” he said, rolling his eyes before standing and walking towards the kitchen.

Aimee followed. “I won’t, because we both know it’s true! You’re being an idiot. I never saw you happier than I did when you and Harry were… doing whatever it was you were doing.”

“That wasn’t _happy_ , that was a post-sex glow that really did wonders for my skin.”

“Quit being such a fucking prick!”

“What the fuck do you want me to say?” Nick yelled, throwing his arms up in frustration. He’d reached his boiling point thank you very much, and he was _done._ “Do you want me to say I’m completely gone for a sodding 19 year old pop star? Because fucking _fine_ Aimee, I’m completely fucking gone over Harry fucking Styles. _Happy?_ ”

“No Grim, I’m not. I’ll be happy when you quit dicking around and just admit to Harry how you feel. I know it’s hard, believe me, I know! Life’s fucking hard and it’s not a walk in the park all of the time. I know a lot is easy for you, but I know this one thing won’t be, but I also know it’ll be worth it, because that’s the point. Relationships aren’t _easy_. If they were, there wouldn’t be entire sections in bookstores full of self-help books on how to date. It’s fucking hard! All of it is! But it’s worth it, and that’s why I’m still here trying to beat this into your head, because even after all of this time you still haven’t gotten it.”

“Gotten _what?_ ”

She sighed heavily and folded her arms over her chest again. “That you have commitment issues, Harry’s young and maybe a little naive, and that’s fucked both of you over more than anything, but that you two need to sit down like fucking _adults_ and talk about this because you’re perfect for each other and honestly? You’re just being idiots.”

 

Nick was an idiot—like, that was just a fact at this point—but he was obviously a much bigger idiot than he ever thought possible, because he was standing outside of Harry’s house, desperately hoping he was home.

He just needed to see Harry. He needed to talk to him. They had to figure this out, and if that took Aimee yelling at him in the middle of his kitchen for him to figure this out, well… so be it.

“Come on, come on, come on,” he said, stomping his foot a bit while he hit the doorbell over and over. He’d made it past the gate because Harry was too trustworthy for his own good and had practically told Nick the code within his first week of being in the house; now if only he could _get through the sodding door_ —

The door swung open, revealing an angry Harry. He was wearing nothing more than a pair of gym shorts, no shirt, and his hair was a mess. His eyes looked tired, but _fuck_ , Nick was actually pretty sure that was a thing he was into.

Christ. He was so gone.

“What?” Harry asked, voice flat.

“You know Pop Star, most people let their guests _inside_ first.” Nick was being cheeky and he didn’t deserve to be, but he was trying to get back to where they were and figured this was the best way to.

Also he was nervous. He was really fucking nervous. Harry Styles was making him nervous, what the fuck had his life come to?

“You’re not a guest. You’re an intruder. Should I do what most people do to intruders as well, then?”

Nick rolled his eyes and smirked. “Don’t be a twat. Let me in. I have to talk to you and it’s very important, but if you don’t let me in I’ll just stand in your front yard with a radio, a la Say Anything.”

Harry rolled his eyes and stepped aside, letting Nick in. He shut the door and Nick followed as he walked towards the kitchen. He sat down at the island while Harry leaned against the counter, arms folded over his bare chest, which was actually extremely distracting but Nick was trying really hard here and—

“Why are you here?” Harry asked, pulling Nick back to reality.

He sighed. “Because I fucked up, and I’m tired of fucking up and just letting it slide, especially wherever you’re concerned Pop Star. Especially that.”

“Stop calling me that,” Harry sighed, dropping his arms. “You’re not—I thought we’d done this already, Grim.”

“No, Pop Star,” he repeated the name because he was trying to make a _point_ , that this wasn’t over, “ _you_ did this. I’m just getting started actually.” Nick stood and walked around the island so he was closer to Harry. “You know what happened to me this morning? I had Aimee in my house yelling at me for being a twat, more or less. It was an odd morning, to be honest, but regardless, Aimee basically told me we were being idiots.”

“ _We?_ ” Harry squawked.

“Yes. We. Because I’m an emotionally fucked child, but you’re no better to be fair.”

“How so?”

Nick sighed. “Because instead of telling me how you felt outright, you let it build up until you were at your breaking point.”

Harry’s shoulders dropped more and he didn’t argue.

“But, instead of telling you how _I_ felt, I just let you walk away because instead of trying to fight for you or sommat, I figured I was better off to just let you walk away. Instead of trying to fix it, I told myself I couldn’t, because when things get hard, I leave.”

Harry raked his fingers through his hair. “And how exactly do you feel, Grim? Exactly.”

“Bloody gone for you, Harry,” he sighed, throwing his arms up like _what can you do?_ Because really, what could he do? It was true.

“So instead of just _telling_ me that, like an adult, we shagged for awhile and then you decided it was ‘too much’, right? Correct me if I’m wrong.”

Nick sighed again. “No, you’re just about spot on.”

“Right,” Harry said, frowning while he gave Nick a quick nod. “We’re doing this then, okay. So you shut me out for awhile, and then decided you didn’t like that so you pulled me back in, and just when I was getting used to it and thinking we could maybe be fine again, you decide it’s a good idea to send me a hundred texts telling me how much you miss me and some other bullocks, and then once again, shockingly, shut me out. Still spot on?”

Nick frowned. “Just about.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Tell me what I’m wrong about then.”

He shrugged. “Not wrong, you just forgot the part where I was in love with you for all of that.”

“You can’t just say shit like that!”

“Correction, I can, and I am, and I will. So.”

Harry sighed and chewed on his bottom lip. _Distracting._ “You said you moved on. Why can’t I?”

“Because I fucking _lied_ Harry, Jesus Christ. Why aren’t you getting that? I lied! Okay? I was lying. I never moved on and I never will because _I’m in love with you_ but I couldn’t say that before because, hello, emotionally fucked child.”

Harry took a giant step forward. “Are you lying now?”

Nick barked out a laugh. “What do you think? Would I be standing here screaming all of this if I was?”

“Is this a joke?”

Nick rolled his eyes. “My _life_ is a joke, Pop Star, but this? Certainly not.”

Without saying a word, Harry wrapped his hand around Nick’s neck and pulled him in for a bruising kiss. Yeah, he could definitely be in to angry Harry. Harry licked into his mouth, earning a groan from Nick, before he pulled back, breathing heavily. “I can’t keep doing this, Nick. All or nothing. I’m so fucking tired—“

“All, Pop Star. All. I’ll repeat it a million times until you believe me, but seriously… _all_. I’m not—I’m not going anywhere, not unless you want me to.”

Harry kissed him hard again and Nick dug his fingers into Harry’s hips, pulling him closer until they were melting against each other and there wasn’t a centimeter of space between them. “I fucking love you,” Harry breathed while Nick dropped his mouth to Harry’s collar bone.

He dragged his teeth over the bone, over the dark lines of the swallow, biting down on the g on his shoulder and making Harry groan. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” he repeated, over and over, the words getting lost in Harry’s skin. He nosed his way up Harry’s neck until his mouth was biting down in various spots, kissing in others, running his tongue over the angry red marks he was leaving behind. He wanted to mark Harry up, he wanted to show the world, he wanted to do _so much_ …

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” Harry growled, dropping his mouth down to Nick’s neck and biting hard enough to make a rather undignified noise fall from Nick’s lips. “So fucking stupid.”

“ _Your_ idiot though,” Nick practically whispered, wrapping his arms tighter around Harry. He wanted to melt into him and never leave. “Always.”

Harry held him tighter and dropped his forehead, pressing it against Nick’s shoulder. “Don’t—just don’t leave again, and don’t shut me out. Don’t ever shut me out, Nick. I can’t—couldn’t handle that again.”

“Never,” Nick promised, pulling Harry tighter against him. “You’re never going to get rid of me either, so don’t even bother—“

“I love you,” Harry cut him off, voice sounding wrecked. Nick could relate. He felt like Harry sounded. “I just—fucking love you, you big fucking idiot.”

“I know.” Nick choked out a laugh that was a half sob and pressed his lips against Harry’s curls. “So stupid, we both are, but I love you. I could say it a million more times and it probably wouldn’t be enough.”

They stood like that for a little while longer before Nick felt like his legs were going to give out. He tried to extract himself from Harry’s grasp but it was pointless. He was like a bloody boa constrictor. “Don’t leave,” Harry murmured, words getting lost in Nick’s neck, where his face was currently pressed.

Nick smiled. “Never, Pop Star. Never.”


End file.
